September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Fiction

Night Duty

Desk, laptop, lamp. A deflated burrito on the ground (throw it out, please). It didn’t make it to the mini fridge, with that light beer and ice that is rarely solid. The fridge door never did close right. You have to slam it, and even then, when the lights are turned off there’s a yellow strip of light like the black strip of outside between the naked grey curtains. (They said blue in the residence handbook, blue. If this is blue, then it is the most pathetic blue I’ve ever seen.)
 
There’s a man outside my window.
 
When I’m not home, he’s in my room. (There’s a girl with him too, sometimes. Different one every time. So I guess some nights, there’s two people in my room. But usually there’s only one, thank god.)
 
And I know he’s there in there. He’s not a figment of my imagination, thank you very much. You see, sometimes, the curtains aren’t closed properly. They’re plasticky: they leave slits or they bunch up at the bottom against my headboard. Look here, and here, and here. I have pictures, for just in case for do you believe me now?
 
Exhibit A. He drinks my Pabst Blue Ribbon on (melted) ice at 3am.
 
Exhibit B. That same night, he was face up on the carpet by 5. Smoke was curled around his fingers and--
 
Shhh, he usually comes now on Tuesday nights. Ready, set, action. Go. Green light, green light.
 
Bed.
 
No girl tonight, only him shuffling slowly into view. He even walks like a creep; He walks like how I felt when I walked behind my little sister just to stare at her—. When she caught me, I told her she shouldn’t have dressed like that, yes I did, I said “you look like one of those girls.”
 
Undressing.
 
I watch him, one eye barely visible. (grey eyes grey curtains his grey boxers look, ma, i’m a chameleon!) He seems unaware, bustling around. I think, doesn’t he notice me? He must. Sometimes, I want to scream hello with indignation. I want him to look at me like he stares at those girls. How dare he ignore me when he’s in my room.
 
This is the first night I tap quietly on the glass, blushing despite the cold. Then I duck out of his sight (duck duck goose i’m the goose why am i always the goose?). When I look up, there is no light; the curtains are closed.
 
When I try my doorknob a week later, it’s locked. Bastard must’ve taken my key, too.

AMY WANG lives in London, Ontario and is completing a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at Western University.